


I Talk of Heroes and Villains

by Lady Disdain (EnemyAnemone912)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, F/M, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 00:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16776283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnemyAnemone912/pseuds/Lady%20Disdain
Summary: Shaw is a superpowered agent of chaos, working for good.And she doesn't need anyone.





	I Talk of Heroes and Villains

Shaw crouched behind the bar, out of breath. Her chest hurt. Definitely a couple cracked ribs, and pain pulsed through her shoulder. She couldn’t risk taking the bullet out, though. The possibility of bleeding out was a concern.

She risked a glance over the top of the barricade, and was rewarded with a hail of bullets from the three assailants. At least she knew how many were after her. Focus. She took a breath, shoving the pain deep within her, locking it away for the time. It wouldn’t help her now. She knew Reese was down the hall, probably doing better than her considering the screams she kept hearing from people. She cursed her own foolishness when entering the building that had resulted in a loaded shotgun meeting her upper arm.

Focus. She scanned her surroundings. Broken bottles of alcohol were scattered around her, the shards scrunched to dust on the floor. Her gun lay empty at her side. There was a long cross section of the bar that had fallen to the floor that she could use as a weapon, if she could disarm the men. The problem was she couldn’t get close. She needed a distraction.

Shaw stared at her hand, feeling the telltale tickle, then the twinge of pain as a flame flickered to life on her finger. She was too tired to summon anything more powerful. Fuck. Think. Think. The flame grew slightly bigger, spreading to her thumb and forefinger, but she knew any more and the drain on her would be too much. She couldn’t risk passing out before Reese was free of his own assailants.

She glanced around again. She could light the wood on fire, fling it at them as a momentary distraction, leap up over the bar, and try and take them out. Unfortunately, without a clear sight line, she might only get two. The third would shoot her in the head. The flame on her thumb died. She was running out of time. She could try and bluff with a gun, but that would last two seconds. Maybe chuck a small amount of flame at them, throw them off, but again, she doubted that, in her weakened state, she could take all three out before getting pumped full of lead. The flame on her forefinger faltered for a second. It was barely larger than a match at this point, and wouldn’t even leave a blister on the finger, as her bigger flames sometimes did.

Her eyes lighted on a full bottle of whiskey next to her. Idiot. She was an absolute fucking idiot. She ripped a dry, not blood soaked portion of her t-shirt, shoving it down the neck of the bottle. In her right hand, she lit the tip of the wooden stick. Might as well show off. Then, she lit the crude molotov cocktail, and flung it over the bar.

The boom sounded, and she propelled herself over, swinging the spar. She needed to disarm, then go for the kill. She noted the molotov cocktail had taken out one of the men. Good. The spar struck and caught on one handgun, and she twisted it, sending the weapon flying. She then spun back around, swiping the other man’s legs, sending him to the ground. She sent the spar through his neck, leaving it in.

The other man circled her, looking for weak spots. They were more obvious than Shaw would’ve liked: she was holding her body in an uncomfortable slouch to accommodate the mangled shoulder and cracked ribs. Light glinted off his hand; he was carrying a knife. He slashed out, testing her reflexes. She let it go by, then, as quickly as was possible, ducked under and in, quickly jabbing at his throat, solar plexus, and groin. She snapped the knife from his hand, and jabbed it into his stomach. He went down.

There was movement outside, in the corridor. She grabbed the fallen gun, ready to shoot. Reese stepped through the door, hands immediately going up. Other than a small cut on his jaw, he seemed unaffected by the fight.

“Easy, Shaw,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. “You look like hell.”

“Wish I could say the same for you, Reese. Where’s the number?”

“Escaped through the back, into the loving arms of Fusco and Carter. I don’t think he’ll be keeping bar any time soon.”

Shaw just nodded, and walked back to the destroyed bar, snagging one of the few unbroken bottles of alcohol. She popped the cork with her teeth, and poured it over her shoulder, wincing as it cleansed the wound.

“Well?” Reese said. “Ready to bust outta here before it blows?” He gestured to the flames that filled the room of the speakeasy. Shaw just nodded.

They strolled out onto a quiet street, a few blocks away from the Christopher Street subway. The city was quiet on Sunday mornings, especially in the West Village, with everyone recovering from wild nights out. Or, in the case of the goons they left in the nondescript brownstone, not recovering.

They caught a taxi heading crosstown at Christopher Street, getting off a safe distance away from the Subway. Chinatown was bustling, mostly with Asian millennials getting dim sum and catching up. Shaw would’ve stopped to get a bubble tea, but Reese informed her that her blood soaked appearance would have been off-putting. They ducked in to the side street, typed in the code on the vending machine, and slipped down into the Subway.

The first thing Shaw noticed was that someone was redecorating. Fairy lights and paper lanterns were strung throughout, in a great contrast to the modern, techy look of the Machine. Someone had laid out a carpet, and she could smell fried chicken and waffles coming from the kitchen. She grimaced (even though the food smelled delicious). This new atmosphere could only mean one thing: Root was in town.

She limped into the medical center, collapsing onto a chair. The Machine swirled above her, text beeping onto the screen. “You have three cracked ribs, and fifteen pieces of shrapnel in your shoulder.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Shaw said, leaning back as the chair became a medical bed, and equipment flew into action, sterilizing the wounds, and starting to remove the lead from her arm.

“Would you care to be sedated while I operate on you?” Shaw shrugged. The monitor blinked once, confused at the lack of clear response. Shaw nodded once, closing her eyes as she felt the sting of a needle, and then the blissful release as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Shaw always dreamt when she went under. The darkness surrounding her cracked open, and she was in the passenger seat, watching a dark road in front of her. A song filled the cool air of the car. “Hotel California.” Her father beamed down at her, a quick glance before refocusing on the road ahead.

“Sameen? Did you hear what I said?” She shook her head. “I asked if you liked the game.” She nodded yes. “Where did I ever get such a talkative munchkin, huh?” he chuckled, letting go of the steering wheel to tussle her thick hair for a moment. She smiled, feeling the warmth of love caress her face. Then, another warmth began to seep in. It was harsher, and it tore at the seams of her skin, begging to be released, to rend her muscle and envelop her whole. She began to shake, and her father looked over at her in concern as flame erupted from her itching palms.

“Sameen!” The car flipped, and she was trapped, in the darkness and the heat, for what seemed like eternity. The only thought she had, as she heard someone groaning and the sound of police in the distance, was that it was solely and utterly her fault.

“Sameen?” Shaw blinked once, letting the light seep in. Shapes and objects blurred around her, the colors starting to resolve as she began to focus on the sound coming from next to her. She groaned in pain as she twisted her head to the side, letting the resolution become sharper. Root’s face came into view, that typical arrogant smirk quirking across her lips as she leaned forward. Shaw tried to raise herself up into a seated position (she felt too exposed lying down in front of Root), but Root stopped her, pushing her back down. “Rest, sweetie. You need it.”

“What do you want, Root?”

“Can’t a girl say hi to her friends every now and then?” Root leaned forward, and Shaw could smell her shampoo. It was something feminine and fruity. Of course it was. “Didn’t you miss me?”

“I haven’t missed you since 2016.”

“Aww, Sameen. That hurts,” Root said, twisting her lips into a pout. It wasn’t cute. “Do you always make rude comments when girls try to flirt with you?”

“Only when you try to flirt with me.”

Root leaned back, crossing her arms with a shit-eating grin. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Shaw.”

“I’m injured, Root. What more do you want from me?”

Her gaze traveled up Shaw’s body, stopping to stare directly into Shaw’s eyes. “Oh, I have a few ideas.” They stared at each other in silence for a moment longer than was probably appropriate before Shaw was snapped out of whatever was happening by a cough from behind them. Finch stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit. His cheeks were flushed a little redder than usual, and it was clear that he had been waiting in the doorway for longer than he would care to admit.

“Ms Shaw. Ms Groves. Glad to see you’re both alive and well after some very… Spirited community service.”

Shaw cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you’d call our little operation, Finch? ‘Community service.’”

“We are providing a unique service to the community of New York. I think the term is appropriate, Ms Shaw.”

“C’mon Sam, lighten up.” Shaw just glared at Root, who returned the look with a wink. Shaw rolled her eyes, and directed her gaze back at Finch.

“So, am I cleared? Can I get out of these disgusting clothes and get started on the next number?”

“Oh, sweetie, I’d help you out of those clothes anytime.”

Finch coughed again. “You are free to change, Ms Shaw. However, I’d perhaps advise some caution. The mission today caused quite the stir.” He gestured to the monitor, with turned to the news. CNN was talking about a potential terrorist attack in the West Village that had caused an entire building to go up in smoke, filled with mysterious assailants. So far, the report said, the police were clueless.

The talking head on the the gesticulated wildly. “This is the problem with our NYPD! A whole brownstone just goes up in flames, possibly as a result of terrorists, and they say they had no clue?”

The moderator cleared her throat awkwardly. “Thank you, Mr Reynolds. Mr Lambert, from Decima technologies, you've been working with the NYPD for months on their predictive analysis programs. What do you have to say in response?”

Lambert smiled cooly, folding his hands. His accent, clipped and professional, seemed to ooze like an oil slick out of him. The smile didn't reach his eyes. “I think the real problem, Ms Chung, is not with our policing strategies, but rather with those individuals predictive analysis fails to understand.”

“You're referring to metahumans?”

“Oh, not all metahumans are dangerous, of course. But it is no secret to anyone aware of events occuring in our city that a certain few individuals, vigilantes, have been wreaking havoc. Our police, in conjunction with Decima, have been trying to find them, but, obviously, powers make them harder to find. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if this recent attack was a direct result of these vigilantes making their presence known in a more, shall we say, meaningful way.”

Reynolds rolled his eyes. “It's still terrorism. And the NYPD is supposed to be protecting this city. What even does 'Decima’ do, anyways?”

Lambert's smile was tight-lipped, and he seemed to be gritting his teeth as he spoke. “I'm afraid our work is sensitive, and on a need to know basis with the city of New York.”

“You're not even from here!

“I think that's all the time we have,” the moderator interrupted, smiling benignly at the camera. “Next up, a heartwarming story about a friendship between a boy, and a seal!”

“Charming,” Lambert interjected, as the show cut to a commercial break.

“I think you can see that perhaps you ought to take my advice, Ms Shaw.”

“He’s right, sweetie. The public thinks you’re a menace to society.” Root wrinkled her nose, as though someone had just told her an amusing anecdote. “Though really, Sameen, are they that far off?”

“Lambert’s a slimy menace,” Shaw said, swinging to her feet with a grunt. “No one’s going to believe him about anything.”

“Evidently, enough people believe him to put him on CNN,” Finch replied. There was a tinge of fear (if Finch even felt fear), that Shaw could pick up in his voice. “Please, Ms Shaw, remember that it is not simply your identity on the line-”

She cut him off, “But there are multiple, unpowered people who depend on us, and whose lives would be in immediate danger should I reveal myself to Decima, the NYPD, and, by extension, Samaritan.”

Root beamed at her. “See, Harry. I told you she paid attention.”

“Let me get into some clothes and I’ll join you outside for the debrief.” Finch and Root left her, not before Root made a small heart sign with her fingers. Shaw rolled her eyes, pulling off her ruined clothes, replacing them with a nearly identical pair of jeans and a black tank-top. After a moment’s consideration, she threw on a hoodie.

When she left the medical bay, she found the rest of the team seated around a table, playing cards. Reese was dealing, levitating his own hand while the cards dealt themselves. Root was staring at her own hand with intense concentration, while Fusco and Carter seemed to be playing as one. Finch watched impassively from the corner. Shaw stood, leaning against the doorframe, just wanting to soak up the moment. Root, smugly, placed down three cards, sweeping up the paperclips the team was using as poker chips. As she gathered her winnings, she made eye contact with Shaw, and winked. Shaw looked away, rolling her eyes, ignoring the brief flush that swept over her cheeks.

She felt a nudge on her leg, and glanced down to see Bear needily poking his nose up at her. She squatted, her voice placating. “I don’t have any treats, Bear.” He nudged more incessantly at her leg, as though he detected some trace of something on her. “I said I…,” she sighed, relenting almost immediately. She couldn’t resist that damn dog. “Let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”

She heard Finch’s voice as she was heating up some old noodles, and fed them to Bear as he addressed all of them. “Mr Fusco, I trust you returned Jackson to his apartment, safe and sound?”

“Safe, definitely. If you want sound, Finch, I recommend you don’t leave another number alone with John and Looney Tunes.”

“Relax, Lionel,” John said, dropping his cards with a thud and a thin smile, “We would never intentionally hurt a number.”

“You weren’t in that guy’s head, pal. He was going nuts. It took me and Carter ages to settle him down. Made me hungry.”

“You know we appreciate your efforts, Mr Fusco.” Finch adjusted his glasses, somewhat nervously. “Were you able to uncover anything useful about Decima while… Inhabiting his mind?”

Lionel exchanged a wary glance with Carter. They seemed to have a conversation with their eyes, then Lionel looked away, crossing his arms. Carter picked up the slack. “Nothing we didn’t already know, Finch. I was confused, though. Why does The Machine keep sending us numbers already affiliated with Decima? That’s not entirely random.”

“She’s just trying to protect us,” Root said. “Decima grows too powerful with the NYPD, and her existence, and ours is threatened.”

“However, I don’t believe it is entirely selfish, Detective Carter. Jackson Pollard was in danger, and could very well be dead, had we not intervened.”

“Can’t She perform two functions at once, Harry? You did make Her intelligent, after all.” Root leaned back in her chair, stretching out her impossibly long legs, much to Lionel’s irritation. She seemed unfazed by everything except the questioning of her robotic overlord.

Shaw finally spoke up. “What do we think of that, uh, Lambert guy? Seems shady. What does he even do for Decima?”

Carter shook her head, eyes furrowed in a look of disgust. “He’s just some talking head. Walks around, looks pretty…”

“Didn’t know anemic British guys were your type, Carter,” Lionel quipped.

“Looks pretty, does nothing but talk out of his damn ass is what I would’ve said, had you let me finish,” Carter shot back, slapping Fusco playfully. She refocused back on the group. “I don’t think he’s a threat. He’s just some underling.”

“Underlings can be a threat.” John leaned forward, worry furrowing his brow. “Carter, you can’t underestimate this guy.”

“I can handle myself, John.”

“I know you can, but I just-”

“John!” Carter stood up, her voice tight, like she had a bit of food stuck in her throat. “I can handle myself. Now, Fusco and I should get back to the precinct. Decima tracks break hours now. They’ll be suspicious if we’re gone for too long.” She picked up her coat from across the room, tossing Lionel’s at him. He grabbed his cup of coffee as they walked towards the street entrance. “Call us when you need us, Finch. You know where we’ll be.”

The Subway was quiet after their departure, no one quite sure what to make of the dramatic exit. Something was clearly going on with Carter and Reese, but Shaw didn’t feel like wasting the emotional energy figuring it out. It would sort itself out, and they would be back to awkwardly flirting in dangerous situations in no time. They were so weird like that. Shaw would never be a part of such a thing.

Reese was set up in the shooting range, hurling daggers forward, embedding themselves in the thin cardboard targets. It would have been a mundane enough scene if the daggers were not removing themselves from the targets and flying back to Reese’s waiting hand. Shaw would have joined in (her fire was never as strong as she needed it to be), but she worried about setting the whole place on fire. She decided against that, and just watched as Reese methodically hit the bullseye, one after the other.

Finally, he spoke. “If you want to talk about Carter, we’re fine.”

“Why would I want to talk about Carter?”

He shot a glance over, and seeing her impassive face, shrugged. “Nevermind.”

“You know I don’t talk about that shit.”

“Care to shoot some targets, Shaw?” She shook her head, and he nodded, going back to his practice. Shaw and Reese had a sort of understanding. They didn’t like to talk about their feelings, they didn’t like to dwell on things. Of everyone on the team, she felt that Reese and her spoke the same language. Everyone else was so confusing; Finch could oscillate between robotic aloofness and intense compassion, Carter was just too good, Fusco wore his heart on his sleeve and Root… Root was too damn confusing. Just when Shaw thought she had Root figured out, she would be surprised by Root. No, it was easier with Reese.

He stepped aside, gesturing at the targets. “Shoot.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order. Shaw got up, and felt the familiar prickling and then sting around her fingers as a flame snapped to life. She let it grow, ignoring the normal searing of flesh as the calluses on her hand heat up and the flame turned into a fireball, which she she sent flying at the target. It lit up in flames, and then the pain kicked in on her hand, as it always did, the air aggravating the fresh burn. The fire suppression system activated, dousing out the target. The target born a searing, knotty hole right through the center where the fireball had hit.

“Nice shot,” Reese said. He nodded at her hand. “Why don’t you have some sort of immunity, again?”

“Because my genes are fucked up and want me to feel pain. Why can’t you lift anything over fifty pounds?”

He laughed. “I’m working on it.”

She stared down at her hand once more. She had always wondered why the fire hurt her just as much as anyone else. She had always assumed, when she saw people with her abilities in comic books, that they wouldn’t feel it. She always saw them wreathed in flames, and knew that if she did that, she would be burned alive. Shaw could still remember being seven years old, sitting in that car, feeling both her arms engulfed in fire, and the suffocating pain that came with it. Her arms still bore the scars from that night. And she could remember those endless teenage years of pain feeling less than nothing, and wanting to feel anything. She remembered how she would slice fire across her wrists, and cry in relief when the burns would show up.

She has met other fire wielders before. It’s fifty-fifty whether they felt the effects of their gifts. All those that do bore the same silvery scars on their fingertips that she does. No one else was forced into combat like her, and no one else’s palms bore the weight of constant, militaristic repetition of pain.

The only person Shaw had ever met who had the same amount of scars as her was Reese. They had talked once, long ago, when he and Finch were trying to get her to trust them, about finding out about his powers when he blew out all the windows in his home, and the glass cut him all over into tiny slivers. Nicks, all over his body.

Shaw realized she had been sitting there for a while when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She had lost track of time, but she turned, expecting to see Reese. She was met with Root, staring down at her intently, eyes full of worry. “Sweetie?”

Shaw shook off the hand. “What?”

“Nothing. She told me you had been down here for a while. Wanted to make sure you were feeling okay.”

“I’m fine.”

Root looked down at Shaw’s hand, red and raw from the latest drills. When their eyes, met, Root’s were glistening, but she still managed to crack a smirk. “Want me to kiss it and make you better?”

“God, Root.”

“Is that a good ‘God, Root,’ or a grumpy ‘God, Root’?”

“You tell me.”

Root swept forward and pressed their lips together. It happened so quickly Shaw didn’t even comprehend what happened for a couple seconds, then she stood, hastily, pulling away. “Sameen?” Root’s voice was pleading.

Shaw didn’t answer her. She just walked off, not daring to look back. Shaw didn’t care about feelings, and she didn’t care about Root. Her head was pounding, but she blamed it on overextending herself after surgery. Nothing to do with Root. Perfectly normal. She thought she could hear Finch calling for her, and even if he wasn’t, she needed air anyways. Shaw was completely alone. That was fine. She didn't need Root. She had herself, and the fire within her. She had been fine for years before. She would be fine now.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is currently a one-shot. It may become a series if I feel particularly inspired.


End file.
